Drabbles are strange works of flash fiction and are exactly 100 words in length. Traditionally Drabbles are self-contained stories with a beginning, middle and end, but can be based on any theme that takes an author's fancy. There are many, many great drabblists out there and we would encourage you to find an author / selection that sparks your imagination. But more than this, why not try writing a few for yourself and perhaps submitting them to www.bookhippo.uk?
A Short Selection by G. J. Reilly
The Glastonbury Evasion
Sitting here, hunched and shivering, legs numb, sweating. I don't know how long I've been here, but if anyone notices, it'll be the end of me.
The stench is filling my nostrils now, the noise coming from beyond the wall is deafening, but still I dare not move from here. If anyone sees me ... it's over.
The numb in my legs turns to hurt, but I daren't stretch them. Someone passes by and I hold my breath, hoping they don't notice.
Sensing my last chance, I shuffle into the cubicle next door, relieved at the sight of fresh toilet paper
Table for three
We've been best mates since we was kids, there's nuffin I don't know 'bout him, or him of me.
"How d'you do it?" I ask.
"Surround yourself wiv gorgeous girls?"
"Dunno," my best friend replies. "It's not like I try."
A waiter comes by and drops a tray of drinks at the table.
For some reason, he pulls up the empty chair and sits.
My best mate wiggles his eyebrows at me and says, "This is Craig," and I finally get what he wants to talk to me about.
Strangely, it don't bover me none; he's my mate.
Often the subject of his story, the hero is great and powerful. This hero is great. This hero is powerful; but he's not the subject. In his story, the subject is Death, Magic and Human Nature. When I spoke to the hero, he told me so.
I saw him in his armour. He shone like the sun, and all who looked upon him were in awe. His mighty weapon was his pen; his power, his ink.
Now the hero is gone and only his legacy remains. My heart is sad for his passing, but my resolve is stronger for it.
"Half the night trying to terrify people, and I come away with a bag of sweeties!"
"Chuck us the pralines, love. You know you're allergic."
He handed her the bag. "One woman even said I looked hot. I tell you, Edith, it's not like the old days." He slumped onto the sofa. "I don't think I'll bother next year. I had kids asking for a selfie with me!"
"What on earth for?" Edith chuckled.
"Best devil costume they'd ever seen, apparently."
"Oh, Lucifer," said Edith, "you really ought to find a better time of year to go out collecting souls!"
"How did the Nile come to be?
When the world was still flat, Sahara walked the walls of her father's palace, mourning the loss of her fiancée, Prince Nile. Her great love had died in a battle that lasted an age.
Inconsolable with grief, she cried a billion tears, that covered the valley where he was buried, until it overflowed.
Refusing to eat or drink, she eventually joined him at the oasis.
To this day her desiccated body still rests at the palace, her arm outstretched, clutching his hand in hers.
Each year, their love blossoms anew, renewing their vows."